No words. No ink.

We talk but its never like it used to be, its idle chatter based on the current affairs of opinions, our conversations are nowhere near as deep, as meaningful as they used to be. We could talk all day long and now it would mean nothing, we could talk all night long and it would not blow us away, because when it comes to you there are no words anymore. No words. I just don’t know what to say to you anymore. I don’t have anything left in me, no feelings, no emotions, nothing towards you. Our conversations are not even near deep as the conversations I have with my barber. I never thought it would ever be like this, but what can I say, I can’t even write about you anymore because it sounds nothing but cliched. 

In the months since we closed the book and set it ablaze, I let myself bleed and it all came gushing out like a severed wound, I bled the words I wish I had said, I bled all the things we dreamed, and they all gushed out in letters completely incomprehensible. And as I scoured over them with a fine toothed comb I formed words, which became sentences and paragraphs, entire novels and from that I gain perspective, understanding and most of all closure. In time I bled every ounce of blood I had, and that blood became ink to a pen that told my story, but now there is nothing left to be said, there are no words. No blood left to bleed, nothing to ink my pen. I question whether a story ends when the pen runs dry or if there is more to be said. Perhaps when a story is cut short as the pen runs dry it becomes time to venture out into the world and begin another adventure that results in as much ink as the last one did, from which another story may begin to be told, or one can continue from where he left off. In any case I’m out of ink.